Thwarting Magic

Chapter One

She is a pretty bit, but her sister looks more to your taste, Adrian Hughes said, warming the tails of his coat at the fireplace.

James Treadway, voice roughened by the rasp of brandy, drawled, You put your finger on it. But the dear pater don’t care for my taste. He is determined on this match. Has approached Ridgemont already and all but signed the marriage contract. He turned the snifter around and around in his long fingers, peering at it as if the spirits were tainted. Unless I wish to seriously displease him, I will betroth myself to Miss Ridgemont, though she is a far cry from my ideal.

Papers shifted as he leaned against the beveled lip of the walnut desk and blew to warm his fingers. Can’t abide insipid chits. He says she was in town last year; don’t remember her at all. But the pater is determined.

Hughes ran his finger along the frame of an indifferently painted ancestral portrait, dislodging a small clump of beeswax. The drip fell; he stooped and picked it up, depositing it in the pen tray. Heaven forbid you displease the old martinet.

And heaven forbid I displease the old martinet who holds the purse strings. He don’t like widows, but Mrs. Whitmill-Ridgemont has a lushness that speaks to me, a flamboyance that urges me to get to know her better, even in crow black. Margaret Ridgemont is much too staid for my taste.

A wisp of sound made Treadway turn toward the library door, at the same time inhaling the heady scent of heliotrope. Framed between the moldings of the double door entry like Guinevere and her handmaiden were the two ladies he referred to. Mrs. Christine Whitmill-Ridgemont, the wearer of the sophisticated perfume, had her arm entwined with that of Miss Margaret Ridgemont, the young lady his father had requested, nay, ordered him to wed.

The first was unmistakably a widow. In a worked muslin gown the color of mourning, Christine Whitmill-Ridgemont was a vision. She wore the dress high around the bust, the tiniest twist of crape confining her bosom, accentuating her finest feature. The hall candles backlit her skirt, lending the black muslin a touch of transparency. His attention seldom slid that high, but her face was acceptable, with arched brows over brown eyes and slightly hooked nose.

To James Treadway, the widow was a picture of perfection with intriguing flashes of passion.

Margaret Ridgemont did not compare in form or style. Dark hair, light dress–what more was there to say? The thick jaconet muslin, plain and tight to the hips with a fall of concealing lace at the bodice, was more than a year behind the fashion. In dull debutante white, Miss Ridgemont was a watercolor wash of dun.

She was too petite to suit Treadway, too demure to intrigue, too insipid to inspire. Worse, she epitomized what his father wanted for him. At least she didn’t have spots.

No matter his thoughts, Treadway felt the first faint tinkle of his life shattering. The doors to the hall were not far enough from where he stood. The library was too blasted small, the desk too close to the doors. His words could have carried that far. He picked up the scattered papers and tapped them into a tidy pile. They went askew when he set them down.

What he had said was not proper drawing room fare. Gentlemen did not discuss ladies in a derogatory fashion. Especially ladies one contemplated wedding. It just wasn’t done. Not publicly, not privately. He glanced from one to the other.

Had the girl heard? Would she complain to her father?

Ladies, Hughes said. You are a breath of tropical air in the Arctic. Please, come in.

I hesitate to interrupt, Miss Ridgemont said. Hughes moved forward.

No, no interruption. We were about done.

She stood like a block in the doorway, no expression on her face. He’d seen more appealing cows, though to be fair, she wasn’t portly. But there was no life to the chit, nothing of passion. No, she must not have heard, else she would be having the vapors and screaming for Papa to call him out. Treadway sighed and turned his attention to the widow. Had she heard?

Mrs. Whitmill-Ridgemont propelled her sister into the room. Our stepmother requests your attendance in the drawing room. Her long lashes fluttered, laying spiky shadows against pearly skin. We were lonely without your company in any event, were we not, Margaret?

The cow flushed, nodding agreement with her sister’s pronouncement. Impulsively, Treadway revised his opinion. Margaret Ridgemont wasn’t a cow, but a merino. Cows flapped their mouths a lot. Sheep were merely dull.

No, there was no sign the widow had heard.

Crow black glided across the room, swaying to a stop when the widow’s feet touched the elaborate medallion curled on the center of the rug. Glancing at the meager fire, she said, The drawing room is warm with a big blaze in both fireplaces. Not like this chilly old library. Brrr, I need a muff in here.

James smiled. It is cool, but with the weather, not surprising. Many rooms are hard to heat.

The sheep commented, Step-Mama thinks too warm a fire encourages must in the books.

The only thing that could thrive here is icicles. Giggling at her own weak humor, the widow’s bodice expanded in an interesting manner. Most affected laughs had Treadway running for the door, but not this one. It sounded like the mating call of the female rake. He responded with the instinct of a full-blooded male. He just couldn’t act on it.

Mold is a concern with books, Hughes said. It causes the musty smell. Cool temperatures inhibit mold. She is right to be vigilant, especially if Sir Denison has any valuable tomes.

Papa has an old copy of Sir Thomas Mallory’s history of King Arthur. Miss Ridgemont gestured vaguely to the far wall. I do not know if it is valuable, but he fusses over it. He showed it to me once; it has beautiful illuminations. He keeps it under lock and key.

Hughes raised his eyebrows. "Really. An illuminated Morte D’Arthur. That is rare enough to justify all manner of precaution. I would love to see it."

If you ask Papa, I am sure he would bring it out.

Do you know who illuminated it?

No, only that it was done in an abbey. Papa said something about a rose tint to the gold that makes it English. French is darker, I believe.

The widow smiled. You must come to the drawing room. If you freeze in here, Sir Denison will be irritated. Besides, he specifically desired your presence.

Hughes set his glass on a table and sketched a bow. We have holed up here too long. My apologies for detaining Treadway, Mrs. Whitmill-Ridgemont. Wanted to gain his advice about an investment and added too much detail. He’s a devil with the funds, y’know. Under his breath, he added, By Balan, I hope she didn’t hear.

Treadway’s lips barely moved. She couldn’t have. Before he could extend his arm, the widow tittered and attached herself to Hughes’s sleeve. Diaphanous black muslin floated about his legs.

Investments are boring, she chided. Better to flirt with me.

They are my life blood, Hughes protested. Investments and music. I can’t resist violins. The two left the library, the widow’s draperies fluttering. Treadway’s attention went with them.

Leaving the papers in a smear, he crossed the room and held his arm out to the other lady, the quiet one wearing modest white muslin. The staid one his father had ordered him to wed. Shall we go to the drawing room? Lady Ridgemont may become impatient and that would not do. Miss Ridgemont dumbly laid a hand on his sleeve. "Hughes and I should not have spent so much time in the library–our poor excuse must be the investment we discussed is involved. He is enthusiastic and I lost track of the minutes.

My mother raised me well, he continued with a desperate flash of teeth, though sequestering myself away from the party may not show my manners to best advantage. I shall exert myself to behave better in the future.

Ignoring what Treadway trusted may have been taken as a roundabout apology, the chit kept her eyes averted. He paid little attention to her reply.

I readily forgive your delay, though I had not noticed you gone from the company overly long, she said. In my experience, gentlemen are forever immersed in their own concerns. During my season at Camelot, ladies complained men hid in libraries discussing the quest for the Ark of the Covenant and other matters rather than dancing. I thought much of the time they merely avoided dancing.

Mismatched in height and step, they walked through the library door and started across the marble-floored hall. Boots tapped an even beat while slippers pattered and skipped. Step-Mama will not be impatient, I believe, no matter what my sister said. She understands gentlemen must be indulged when they fail to note the passing of time. It is my father who wishes to hasten the business.

Business, he repeated, bored beyond belief with her colorless conversation. What business may that be, Miss Ridgemont?

The business that brought you to Puckeridge, Mr. Treadway. Skipping a step to match his longer stride, she colored. The business of betrothal. Unless you have altered your intention. My father wishes the matter done. That is why he sent Mrs. Whitmill-Ridgemont and me to seek you out.

Impertinent chit. He slid his hand to her elbow and stopped them in front of a life-size marble statue of Mercury with wings on his heels, clad in drapery resembling a Scottish kilt. He ignored the vulgar god and glanced at his friend and the widow ahead of them, arm in arm. Let them go on ahead.

Hughes, the lucky devil, escorted Christine Whitmill-Ridgemont into the drawing room. Schooling his patience, Treadway fastened his eyes on the sheep. The business of betrothal, hmm. I take it you are aware of why I came to visit.

Yes sir. My father informed me this afternoon that you intend to wed me. Is that an error?

No, but I would prefer to go about this another way. I see no reason to hurry. Would you not like to come to know me better first? Her eyes flickered to his chin.

I believe it best we accomplish the matter without delay.

Arthur, she might have been discussing an arrangement to go driving rather than the disposal of her life. Was Margaret Ridgemont made of ice? Was her placidity as bovine as it appeared?

Staid, hah! Dead and laid out inside was more like. Accolon’s curse, he was not ready for this. She had little to recommend her at the best of times, but here was the final straw. The sheep could not look him in the eye when she consented to his unstated proposal. She couldn’t even wait until he made the proposal to consent. Her clear skin meant nothing if she was as thickheaded as she appeared.

Running out the door and down the drive was not an option. Margaret had nowhere to go and Papa would only fetch her back. Behind a serene mask, she stamped a mental foot on the marble floor.

Did this man want to marry her? Surely not, not after what she heard. She raised the subject just to get it over and done with. She said something–she hardly knew what–to let Mr. Treadway know she understood. They were to be betrothed. Papa had decreed.

He stopped her with a hand on her elbow. Panicked though she was, Margaret swallowed a giggle. Step-Mama’s pretend Greek statue was taller than Mr. Treadway. More handsome too. To be fair, his was an imposing figure: Mr. Treadway, not Mercury. The broad shoulders of a horseman filled a claret-colored coat cut by a master tailor. With a smooth, neat cravat, he looked like someone consequential. Despite a nose a tad too long and a mouth a smidge too wide, Treadway’s features were pleasing. But Mercury was more to Margaret’s taste.

The business of betrothal, hmm, he said. He said more, but she only listened with half an ear. She wanted to smack his cheek. She itched to make a fist and push Mr. Treadway’s teeth down his throat. The man sounded bored, for pity’s sake. She focused to control her hand.

Papa’s bald command echoed in her head. She was to marry this man she had scarce laid eyes on before yesterday, who couldn’t adjust his stride to match hers, who gazed at her with hazel green eyes, measured and discounted the total she summed up to. ‘A far cry from my ideal’ he said. If only Papa had not been obdurate. If Mr. Treadway went down on bended knee, she would scream.

Oh, to smash Mr. Treadway’s nose into Mercury’s sporran. She had to say yes, had to tell him she would be his wife. Papa–Step-Mama–would accept nothing less. Composed on the surface, she stared at his chin and said what she really did not want to say.

I believe it best we accomplish the matter without delay.

* * *

A few seconds thought and she changed her mind. Then she told her family of the reversal.

The drawing room door was open, Lady Ridgemont screeched. I heard. You cannot rescind your promise.

Margaret shook her head. I do not deny what I said. Upon reflection, I changed my mind. It was their custom to meet in the drawing room before dinner for a glass of sherry or brandy. Strife was Step-Mama’s preference, as the current discussion illustrated.

Change your mind, why, you ungrateful brat. There is no changing anything. Your father made the decision. His was the choice. You will do as you are told. Christine graced a chair, nodding her head in time to Step-Mama’s noise. Papa distanced himself, hovering over the wine decanters, leaving his wife to chastise his disobedient daughter. Lady Ridgemont was doing so with relish.

You said ‘No delay,’ Margaret. The intent was clear. I consider your statement binding. Lady Ridgemont reclined on the sofa, as smug as a knight tapped on the shoulder by the king. The Lady knows, unlike your mother–may God forgive me for speaking ill of the dead, but she was the most intemperate–I tried to instill obedience and a sense of responsibility in you. Obedience to your elders and responsibility to the family name. Those precepts are the foundation of life. You will wed James Treadway. Without delay, as you promised. Step-Mama was overdoing the dutiful wife role. Papa should fight his own battles. Better, he should pretend this was his battle, not his wife’s.

Not an hour ago, you were agreeable to the scheme, Christine purred. I like Mr. Treadway quite well. He will make a fine husband.

Margaret turned her eyes from her elder to her younger sister, fading into the wall, pretending deafness. Emma did that much too often. But Margaret must counter Step-Mama’s plot, not worry about Emma. You may like him, Christine, but I fear Mr. Treadway and I will never suit.

Step-Mama ranted. Your father went to a deal of trouble arranging this. It behooves you to be grateful for his efforts. He had to go to London to chase down Carlton Treadway. You know he dislikes town. He was absent an entire fortnight. It’s a wonder he didn’t turn bilious. It is not as if you managed to attach a gentleman by your own efforts. Your season was a disgrace. No, you will do as you are told. I will brook no more demurrals.

The older woman listed toward the armrest like a top-heavy sloop at anchor. She must have celebrated the betrothal privately with a bottle of sherry. You want me gone, you wicked crone, so you don’t suffer comparison with my youth. Or comparison with Mama. Drat you for pushing Papa to this. Thus far, the argument had lasted a quarter hour between her, Step-Mama, and Papa. Papa had said the least.

Aloud Margaret said, Step-Mama, Mr. Treadway is not to my taste. How can I wed a man I dislike? Her own thoughts drowned her protest. Where is Emma going? From the corner of her eye, she watched her sister slip out the door to the small salon. She was going to hide, as she did more and more frequently. She wouldn’t be at dinner. Lucky Emma.

Nonsense. I see nothing distasteful. James is a fine young man. Lady Ridgemont’s voice rose. You will have a house in town and an ample allowance; your children will bear a respected name. It’s more than you deserve, with this shilly-shallying. Don’t think I will put forth the effort to take you to Camelot again, you ungrateful chit. The expense and your father’s comfort forbid it.

The inconvenience, Margaret mumbled.

Christine, dear Christine, heaped coals on the fire. I wouldn’t mind wedding Mr. Treadway. His coats are by Weston. No padding there. And his boots are Hoby. Such a well turned out figure. Margaret is a ninnyhammer. I imagine she has the idea he will mistreat her.

Christine loved to needle her sisters and especially, their brother, Thomas. Margaret likened her elder sister to the knight Blamore, who after siding with Lancelot against the king, died a hermit; Margaret thought his going into seclusion showed a guilty conscience for his perversity, no matter what the history books said. Christine was like that. Someday she would regret her vagary, just like Sir Blamore.

You may find him a paragon. I do not.

Lady Ridgemont dripped acid. No man is a paragon. If you look for perfection, you will end your days firmly on the shelf. That will never do. I will not have it said I failed my duty to Sir Denison. He devised a fine match and I will see you obey him. I insist you obey your father.

The only lack is a title. Christine stretched her hand and admired the massive ruby ring on her finger. I was not able to gain one; I do not see you doing better. She twisted on the chair. Papa, Margaret is adamant. You should suggest to Mr. Treadway that I would be amenable to a betrothal with him.

Sir Denison stalked to the comfortable padded chair that was his alone and brandished a wine glass much as the bronze figure on the mantel clock waved her laurel wreath. Sitting, he rested the crystal precariously on his knee and rubbed his hands together. Nonsense. He’s for Margaret, not you, Christine. All settled, not going back on my word. You, Margaret, don’t be missish. Nothing objectionable about the Treadway family, nothing wrong with the boy. It’s a fine match, a fine match indeed. Settles you most respectably.

You don’t know the meaning of the word unpleasant, Christine interjected.

I don’t see that he is respectable, Margaret said.

Christine tittered. Respectable. A fine house in town, fashionable carriages. A box at the Opera. What do you find objectionable?

Opera dancers.

Sir Denison narrowed his eyes. Watch your tongue. You should be glad I arranged a match of stunning advantage for you, girl. He swung his arm in an arc, spraying wine. James Treadway, despite the lack of a handle to his name, stands to inherit some of the neatest acreage in the Isles. The Treadway estate is chock full of sheep and acres of hops. His father had that fellow–what was his name–Benjamin Franklin; that fellow. Had Franklin to stay with him. Carlton Treadway convinced King George it was better to make trade agreements than war. He helped establish the Crown’s relations with the new country of America, for Arthur’s sake. Prominent family.

I care not about acreage or politics, Papa.

Christine laughed. You must have heard something in town about Mr. Treadway. Margaret, all men are rakes, especially the good looking ones.

He is handsome, Lady Ridgemont said, dabbing at the wine spotting her skirt, and possesses enough charm to please any woman. A reputation means nothing. The boy has been sowing wild oats, is all. All spirited young men do. Once you are wed, it is up to you to keep him content and at your side.

Handsome as Adonis, her sister said.

Margaret didn’t care for the tone of Christine’s remark. She ran a shaking finger over the mantel clock. Papa, I would like to refuse.

Sir Denison thundered, NO. That is final, Missie. Face purple, he shook his finger. No. No. No. The settlements will be signed. The announcement will be in the papers. We will not discuss it again. You are marrying James Treadway and that... is... that.

At the same time, Lady Ridgemont shrilled, You agreed to this match. I heard you. I will see you wed or you will spend the next ten years in the wine cellar. You will not disgrace us by jilting him. Under cover of the eruption, Christine let temper overtake her composure and flounced out, risking the dire fate of setting lines on her forehead from frowning.

I won’t sacrifice my wine cellar. Either she does as she’s told or she can take up governessing, Sir Denison bellowed. He kicked the footstool, which rolled over and played dead.

The girl is doing better than her sister by a long chalk, he muttered. I let Christine make her own choice and look what came of it. Looked around before I set my mind on Treadway. Buck of the first water. Many a chit would be delighted to be hooked with him. Fine family–prominent–well heeled. No one can say I didn’t do my duty.

Did you say something, dear? Lady Ridgemont asked. I couldn’t hear you.

He shook his head. Females are the very devil.

Margaret, knuckles white as her hands strangled each other, knew defeat. On that cheery note, the door opened and the two guests, James Treadway and his friend Adrian Hughes, entered. Sir Denison bolted for the decanters. Lady Ridgemont fussed with her hair.

Someone should maintain standards. Margaret said, Mr. Hughes, Mr. Treadway, please come in. Would you care for a glass of sherry before dinner?

Lady Ridgemont belatedly donned a brilliant smile. Come sit with me, dear Mr. Treadway, she trilled. May I call you James? Sir Denison cleared his throat and glanced at his wife, who straightened on the sofa and nodded vigorously.

The older man thumped a fist against his amply padded thigh. Treadway, I see no reason to stick my head down the fox hole. You came to Puckeridge for a purpose and I’d like to finalize it now. Do you agree to a betrothal?

Both guests looked startled. Treadway paused in the middle of the floor and turned a leery eye toward Margaret. Ah, Miss Ridgemont and I have not–

Sir Denison interrupted. Bah. She’s female; she’ll do as she’s told. Do I have your agreement? The belligerent words hung in the air. Behind Treadway, Hughes stared at a drooping arrangement of hothouse roses.

Yes, sir, Treadway said, turning dull red.

Good. When your father arrives, I’ll draft a notice to the papers. Ridgemont stomped to the drinks table and hefted a full decanter. Shall we have a toast to seal the bargain?

Lady Ridgemont patted the sofa cushion. What a wonderful surprise. I couldn’t be more delighted you young people have found each other. You will be happy together. Come James, tell me your plans. Shall the wedding be soon? I have it planned: Margaret will wear lace and carry her grandmother’s prayer book. She was Pitt’s mother, you know.

Margaret fought to contain her blazing temper. Turning a stiff back to the company, she noted the time as told by the mantel clock. Almost half past, her moment of doom. She watched the hand on the dial; it seemed as frozen as her soul.

Under her feet, the carpet smoked. Tiny flames flickered in the wool. Not a lot, not enough for a family immersed in strife to notice, but enough to form pinprick holes over the surface. Pile singed and tiny coals dropped through the jute backing before burning out. Unaware of the miniscule bonfires, Margaret shifted her feet. Embers snuffed out. New ones flared.

Chapter Two

Unobtrusively, Hughes moved away from Treadway. His intention was not to shove his nose into this ignoble sealing of a betrothal. It was Tread’s business. He had his own to tend. Now it was on the level of a quest, he could do nothing else. Not that he had objected to the task.

Altogether, it was a situation fraught with danger. He’d likely be knighted if he succeeded. He would gain a seat at the Round Table. And England might not crumble into the sea.

Lady Ridgemont held forth at great length on plans for the wedding. He grimaced, noting Tread’s gray face. The betrothal was as new as gas lights and the woman had him cribbed and confined. He could guess why his friend didn’t want shackles; Tread was a great man for the ladies who couldn’t be termed ladies. Keeping to one woman wasn’t something he did well.

Hughes glanced across the room. Miss Ridgemont appeared unsteady, as upset as Ophelia before she drowned herself. That must be Sir Denison’s maladroit handling. She had achieved that fashionable pinnacle: the Good Match. Nevertheless, forcing Tread’s agreement in front of her was bad nous. Her father should have dragged Tread into the library alone to finalize things, not blurted it out in front of all and sundry. Tasteless. Shaking himself mentally, he concentrated his senses. They skittered.

A clock on the mantel chimed the half hour. Looked like a Dore piece, with the fine detailing of the draperies on the figure. About twenty inches high, with swags, some sort of scepter, and angels on the Cipollino marble base. Maybe Galle did it. And maybe it was offering a clue. His eyes dropped.

The carpet in front of the fireplace glistened. Miss Ridgemont moved to a seat and Hughes took her place at the hearth. He scuffed his shoe along the rug. He wished he could pick the rug up and examine the pile. Would wager his grandmother’s annuity there were holes in it. They’d been made recently; from the sparkling residue, within the last hour. He forgot the clock.

The draperies at the window shimmered. Edging over, he pulled out his quizzing glass. A thin line of fire crept down the velvet, then sputtered out. A two inch slit smoked and sparkled, an unmistakable sign of deadly magic.

Yes, it was coming from someone in the house. His deductions were correct.

Someone connected with Sir Denison was the source of the magic. But he’d lay odds it wasn’t Ridgemont himself. Every sign indicated a female.

Lady Ridgemont nattered at Tread. The torchiere behind the sofa added depth to her fading blond hair. Dropping lids half over his eyes, Hughes let the forceful lady’s figure blur. She looked younger, if one allowed the incipient wrinkles, the light tarnish of her hair, to fade into insignificance. A fine figure of a woman. He could see what had attracted Ridgemont. It was a shame her character wasn’t as refined. Well, there was plenty of that sort in society.

What he didn’t see was the faint phosphorescence the wielding of magic would give her. The glow it would lend her skin, especially her fingertips. She glowed, but more as if she had been at the sherry bottle. Anyway, it wasn’t she. Or was it? He couldn’t be sure.

If we are not to remove to London, the ceremony may be at the chapel in the village, Lady Ridgemont was saying. It’s an adorable place, very Celtic. Enough pews to seat anyone we care to invite, but intimate. Poor Tread looked like porridge warmed in a chafing dish.

Hughes allowed his eyes, still unfocused, to linger on Sir Denison and his daughter. The knight was grumpy, guzzling port and thumping an upended footstool. He hadn’t said much once he’d badgered Tread into the betrothal, just sat in his chair and glowered.

The daughter; she was a thoroughbred. How long it would take his friend to realize Margaret Ridgemont was a damn fine woman? She had cause to indulge in a full-blown case of the vapors, thanks to Tread and his loose lips. She wasn’t even sulking. Miss Ridgemont had graceful fingers wrapped around a thimbleful of sherry. She hadn’t done more than sip–kept the conversation light when many a girl would have shrieked.

He pinched his leg to distract himself from the ephemeral. Didn’t matter, not unless she was the wizard.

No. No sign either father or daughter dabbled. And it wasn’t Lady Ridgemont.

Balked of his prey, Hughes turned his attention to consideration of personalities. The widow wasn’t there yet–dinner was held back for her. Probably primping. The shrew, Lady Ridgemont, simpered when Mrs. Whitmill-Ridgemont sent word she’d be late. Nothing like a little money to grease friendship. Some people don’t have the sense to look beyond the bank account and see the mushroom sprouting.

The widow’s spouse, gross Martin Whitmill, had keeled over one month after their marriage, cursed by a fish bone in his throat. A man could die of food stuck in his gullet, true, but it was convenient for the widow. Whitmill was a coarse merchant, fattened by a fortune made in coal. Filthy coal, filthy man. His death was too convenient to ignore. Had Mrs. Whitmill-Ridgemont facilitated his death with necromancy? It was a possibility to keep in mind.

The door opened. Mrs. Whitmill-Ridgemont slipped into the room. I am sorry for the delay, she said. My hem was coming loose. I miss London modistes, don’t you, dear Step-Mama? That provincial seamstress didn’t knot the thread.

The widow was a feisty armful, willful and passionate. Vulgar. No wonder Tread was interested in her and not the genteel Margaret. He never had much discrimination when it came to females. Hughes unfocused again and eyed the luscious widow.

He rocked on his feet. If he weren’t as surprised as Balan. There it was.

He sharpened his gaze and deflated. No, it wasn’t. A ray from the candle sconce had fallen on the doorknob. The shimmer of brass was from the light, not the remnants of a spell. Her hands were clean. Could it be the widow? Could she be the bearer of bad magic? He scratched his thumb and pondered his suspects.

He’d narrowed it down to someone in this house. Ridiculous to think a servant could create the havoc. The lower classes hadn’t the linguistic training complicated enchantments require; generally, they didn’t achieve more than earth wizardry. This rogue was a full wizard. Someone unknown, unacknowledged by the Council of Mages.

It had to be a member of the family. The idea of Sir Denison creating magic was laughable. Better imagine John Bull as an opera dancer. There was a brother at university and a younger sister. The brother was unlikely–the disturbance emanated from this area, not Oxford. It didn’t look masculine.

The girl was in the schoolroom, too young to join the company. Emma, that was her name. He’d met her by chance, a fleeting introduction when he and Tread first arrived. She was going out to sketch something or other. Could it be her?

How in the crystal cave was he to find out?

Hughes felt such disappointment at not nailing the rogue wizard, he determined to take the harpy, Lady Ridgemont, in to dinner. Let Tread enjoy his meal in peace; his own was already ruined.

* * *

Have to head back to town, Hughes mentioned over after-dinner brandy. Sir Denison nodded, lost in the mists of too many tumblers, but Tread flinched.

I can’t leave yet, he mumbled. Thought you were going to stick with me. The wedding is in six weeks, if they get their way. I’ll not stay the whole time. But I can’t take a flit till after the pater comes.

When will that be?

Saturday. Four more days.

So I’ll expect you in London Monday? Hughes ran a finger around the edge of his glass.

"No later than Tuesday, I swear. I’ll leave Monday even